


i know the secret of drowning

by doctor_whatthefuck



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Ending, Captivity, Choking, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Hand Jobs, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_whatthefuck/pseuds/doctor_whatthefuck
Summary: Guivres is unhappy that her operative has strayed so far from his duty. Luckily, he’s here now, and she can remind him who he belongs to at her leisure.
Relationships: Guivres/Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	i know the secret of drowning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackmoonalcolyte (jomipay)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/gifts).



> god is this my brand now? jo buddy, ily, hope this hits the spot. everyone else, please god read the tags.  
> title from the secret of drowning by carina round

Paris, again. Of course it’s Paris.

The corridor he’s being escorted down is a lovely remnant of more civilised times, rich carpets and ornate ceilings. Wilde is impressed that it survived the last few years – impressed, beyond the terror of what’s surely waiting for him at its end.

At least he doesn’t shame his surroundings. They’ve given him fine clothes, and a blue-mottled, blank-faced woman had made his face up for him; even painted his lips around the cruel metal gag splitting them, with impressive skill. The shackles around his wrists are gold-plated, and they compliment the embroidery on the hem of the shirt perfectly. His throat is tight with the other gift that had been forced on him, and each breath is a struggle.

When a set of gilt-inlaid doors loom up in front of him, he starts hard, almost falling. One of the infected guards steps past him and flings them open without ceremony, and the other ushers him through before he can regain his balance.

The reception chamber is as opulent as he remembers, a treasure palace of red brocade and mahogany, oil paintings teaming with scales and fire arrayed on the walls. Gold accents chosen like jewels offset the true centrepiece of the room; Guivres herself, seated on a monster of a chaise lounge.

She’s chosen to meet him in her human form – if humans reached seven-and-half foot tall, that is. She is so exquisite it hurts to look upon her, slender and graceful and shimmering gold from her hair to her fine silk evening dress to the iridescent undertones to her tanned skin. Every feature is elegant, aristocratic, as beautiful as a firestorm.

She smiles to see him, and her teeth are just a little too sharp.

“My Wilde,” she greets, and her voice fills the room, a tidal wave of sound that he barely withstands. “Back with me at last.” She claps her hands together lightly, and Wilde could swear he can see heat haze shimmering above them. “Wonderful.”

Her eyes have turned a sickly, acid-burn blue.

A delicate flick of a finger, and the infected at Wilde’s back depart, leaving them alone. The first time he’d ever been alone in a room with her, Wilde had been a mess of awed terror, barely managing to form sentences. She’d liked that, he recalls. Had found him amusing, charming, and he’d been so flattered, dizzy with ego and…

It hadn’t been love, not really, though he’d half thought it had been. It certainly is not love now.

“Come here,” Guivres commands, and Wilde’s feet itch to obey. Really, is there any point in resisting?

None, except his own bloody-minded pride. He stays put.

Guivres tuts. “You _have_ forgotten your manners, as I feared. Evidentially I’ve allowed you to run feral for much too long.” A sigh, a desert-wind gust of heat. “No matter, that can be rectified. Come.” This time her voice is heavy, redolent with command. There’s no threat to it; there doesn’t need to be.

Wilde comes, crossing the chamber to stand before her, and tries not to shake too obviously.

Vivid cobalt eyes sweep over him, the finery he’s been dressed in, the artful makeup and hair. They linger on the gag that stops his mouth and the golden collar sitting tight around his throat, gleaming with possession.

It’s not considered proper, to speak of a dragon’s tendency to… collect. But all those who serve the Meritocrats most closely know of it, and Guivres is agreed to be particularly prone to hoarding. Once, being considered one of _hers_ had been the greatest honour of Wilde’s life.

Guivres reaches out, and the air between them seems to part, like it knows she’s so much _more_ than this form. One massive finger hooks into the collar’s ring, tugging gently and using it to pull his head to one side and the other. Admiring him.

“Lovely,” she pronounces, “just lovely. A shame about the gag, of course – I have so missed that voice.” Her other hand comes up to cup his face, one finger tracing where his lips are stretched out around the gold – and don’t think Wilde hasn’t made note of the metal used to silence him, what it means.

He doesn’t even see her take hold of him, just feels her huge hands burning across his hips as she moves him like a ragdoll. A moment of sick dizziness as he’s spun, an explosive shock of _heat_ at his back, and Wilde finds himself seated in Guivres’ lap, thighs splayed wide on either side of her delicately crossed legs. The _size_ of her, even in this form; he feels so small, so weak.

Which, of course, he is. Powerless, defenceless, entirely at the mercy of a being who had none long before she was infected.

Her touch is just as hot as he remembers, on the very knife-edge of burning. One hand runs up the open V of his shirt, scorching over the tender skin there. A cold-sharp slash bursts across his nerves, and when he dares to look down he can see her nails, hardened to gold claws, rimmed with his blood.

Then her hand is around his throat, huge and flat and searing against the architecture of his breath, his life, and Wilde’s head is guided back to rest against her silk-shrouded shoulder. He goes limp, eyes squeezing shut as her grip tightens. Her fingers pinch gently at his carotid, holding the pressure until his head is spinning and his vision begins to grey.

She doesn’t choke him out, of course. That would be _merciful_. She releases him just before he passes out, cradling his throat in her palm and nuzzling into his hair as he gasps, her breath scorching his scalp.

Her other hand slips down to his waistband, and despite the furnace he’s trapped against, Wilde goes cold.

His bound hands ache to scrabble at hers, but his arms feel lead-heavy – as if he could stop her anyway. _No,_ he tries to say, _please_ , but all that escapes the gag is muffled beyond comprehension, and Guivres only laughs softly in his ear.

“Eager, are we, my own?” she croons. “I knew you’d miss me.” Her lips sear into his cheek, and when they relent, Wilde realises he’s crying. He must look a state; his makeup is hardly waterproof. Then again, Guivres always seemed to enjoy that, at least when she was the one destroying him.

Long fingers play over his trouser laces, plucking at them gently and massaging his cock. With horror rising chilly though his veins, Wilde realises he’s _hard_ , full and heavy in her grip. One finger taps teasingly at the head, and he shudders violently, to Guivres’ obvious delight.

She picks his clothes open slowly, obviously savouring the moment, until she has him trapped in her palm. Her hand swallows up his cock completely, and the heat is of a different quality; instead of burning, it’s _melting_. The noise that reverberates in his throat is hideous, vulnerable as the shriek of a trap-caught fox, and Guivres bestows another kiss for it.

For a moment, she just cradles him, his throat and his cock, two of the most vulnerable places in his body entirely within her grasp. Then she begins to move; one hand massaging his length more than jacking it, playing across every sensitive spot until he’s twitching helplessly, the other squeezing and relaxing around his throat. The pressure and onrushing blackness moves across him in waves, until his head hangs heavy in her grip, stuffed with swirling light.

As he strains, Guivres’ huge thumb tucks itself under his glans, stroking against the sensitive delta until he’s shaking all over, hips bucking upwards before he can still them. She chuckles, and her breath washes like fire over his neck as she bends to lick at his throat, snaking a too-long forked tongue between her fingers. Greedy, for the taste of him. He can practically feel the hunger radiating from her. She could eat him entirely, and never be satisfied.

Was she always like this? It’s hard to remember, through the haze of awful pleasure and the tight fingers around his neck. Perhaps this is what the infection makes you. Perhaps his once-mistress was always this monster, and he’d never wanted to see it.

A long, slow pass of her thumb over the head of his cock, coupled with a sudden release of his neck that sends blood rushing up so fast he almost faints, rips a cry from him. Guivres sighs in pleasure against his throat, tongue flickering out to trace his spread lips.

“I wish I could trust you, my nightingale,” she murmurs. “I’d love you to sing for me again.”

 _Never,_ Wilde tries to say, and fails, of course. The edges of the gag are beginning to bite into his cheeks, and he can already feel the sting of split flesh, the hot well of blood.

Guivres’ hand is moving so easily now, slick with pre-come, until he really does feel like he’s melting, coming to pieces entirely. He’s rocking into her grip, can’t seem to stop himself, can’t breathe, can’t _think_. Everything is too much, good in the worst way, good like opium just before it kills you. Gods, he’s _drenched_ with sweat, skin prickling and the cuts on his chest stinging harshly. His eyes burn with tears.

A slow, twisting stroke almost throws him off her lap, heart hammering, and Guivres pulls him tightly back against her by his throat. “So beautiful,” she croons in his ear, her hand wrings that lead-heavy pleasure from him. “My spy, my bard, my pretty songbird. I should never have let you go, darling, and you can be assured that I never will again.”

Wilde’s orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut, pleasure so sharp it’s agonising, and he cries out behind his gag as it tears through him. In its sucking wake, he feels eviscerated.

Guivres cleans him off with a wave of her hand, slipping him back into his trousers. She releases his throat, and without a handhold he dare not grasp, Wilde can’t catch himself, can’t stop himself sliding off her lap. His knees hit the floor hard and he slumps there, an unstrung puppet. He hasn’t been this tired in years.

The amused smile Guivres gives him should burn, but Wilde is sure there’s nothing left of him but ash. “Lovely little thing. I am so glad to have you back where you belong.” Her claws skim though his hair, scraping along his scalp. Wilde doesn’t move into it, but he certainly doesn’t move away. He knows better.

He just sits there, crumpled at her feet – where some young, foolish part of him, that first saw a dragon and fell to his knees in worship, is still convinced he belongs.


End file.
